


Kindness of the Soul

by cordelia_gray



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling and Snuggling, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:39:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordelia_gray/pseuds/cordelia_gray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam got his soul back, but there's still distance between him and his brother. Sam tries to fix it without words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindness of the Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaylennz](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kaylennz).



> This is slightly cleaned up commentfic from the the [Hug Time meme](http://community.livejournal.com/samdean_otp/90360.html) at [](http://community.livejournal.com/samdean_otp/profile)[**samdean_otp**](http://community.livejournal.com/samdean_otp/) , written for a [prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/samdean_otp/90360.html?thread=413944#t413944) by [](http://kaylennz.livejournal.com/profile)[**kaylennz**](http://kaylennz.livejournal.com/) , wanting a long emotional hug.

(title from Allen Ginsberg)

  
When Sam wakes up, the first thing he sees is Dean, looking down at him with big-eyed concern. Sam immediately assumes it must be Heaven, because Dean is here.

Gradually it becomes clear that it's not Heaven at all; it's the panic room at Singer Salvage. While Sam does have many happy memories associated with Bobby's place, none of them attach to the panic room. The sour smell, the narrow cot, the iron walls soaked with Sam's shame and misery - these things will have no place in Sam's Heaven. He's sure of it.

Location is not the only feature that anchors Sam in earthly reality. There is Dean's face, pinched and anxious, shadows like bruises under his eyes and once-tiny lines etching themselves deeper into his skin, like letters on a marble slab. And there's Bobby, crankier than ever, vibrating with an undercurrent of wariness, almost of fear, that Sam has never seen from him.

Then there are the contents of Sam's own head. Or rather, the lack thereof. Sam's last memories are of being worn by Lucifer, of watching Bobby's neck snap and Cas explode _(like a water balloon full of chunky soup)._ The feeling of Dean's cheekbone shattering beneath his fist. The light of day receding as he fell.

But apparently all of that happened a year and a half ago: he's long since forgiven for those crimes. It's more recent ones that have caused Bobby's caution, Dean's distance.

Sam doesn't remember doing those things at all, at least at first.

As time goes by he begins to get flashes, moments of that other Sam's life bleeding through into his own. He doesn't much like what he sees. Dean assures him he wasn't himself when he stood by and watched as a vampire forced his blood into Dean's mouth ( _looked like blood wasn't the only thing he wanted to force into Dean's mouth, the fucker),_ that the real Sam would never have chased Bobby around his own house with an axe.

Sam's not so sure, anymore. That person was part of him, wasn't he? Still is, in fact. Sam's used to questioning his own motives, but this is a knot he can't untie. And Dean freaks out if he thinks about any of it too hard: "Goddamn it, Sam, don't scratch." It's somewhere between the tone he used to remind Sam not to pick scabs when he was eight, and the tone he used to remind Sam not to kill innocent bystanders when he was psycho.

So Sam handles it the Winchester way: deny, repress, fake it 'till you make it. He and Dean hunt: they've got that if nothing else. And it's easy to bury the questions behind a wall of tasks, to focus on the hunt an leave the rest alone. Sam would be lying if he said it didn't feel good to be saving people and hunting things; doing their job. But it would be a hell of a lot better if it felt like they were a team - if there wasn't an unbridgeable gulf between him and the only person in the world he has left.

Sam accepts that he probably deserves it, whatever anger Dean is holding against him; whatever mistrust. Sam isn't trustworthy, that much is clear. Doesn't matter how good or pure his intentions are, the world will find a way to twist them against his will into something dark and corrupt. The unfairness of it gnaws at him, though, the fact that Dean is blaming him for things he never meant to do and doesn't really remember.

Maybe it's the wall, maybe it's the trauma or the memory loss, who knows; but it takes Sam some time, and a couple of conversations with Castiel, before he figures out that the gulf isn't just Dean holding a grudge. Sam remembers some of it now himself, the screaming panic, Death pinning him to that table. No, it's guilt more than anything that's gnawing away at Dean, his endless self-doubt: did he do the right thing? Did he bring Sam back for purely selfish reasons?

Sam can't answer any of that. But if the situations were reversed, he's pretty sure he would have picked the option that didn't involve his brother's soul suffering Hell for all eternity, and he's not going to judge Dean for doing what he thought was right. If there are consequences, they'll deal with them, same as always.

The problem is, Sam had no idea how to say this to Dean anymore. The gulf's too wide, Dean defenses are too strong. Sam feels adrift, unmoored, a ship without an anchor, a slave without a chain - no, wait, that's Supertramp. But still - Sam is losing his grip on himself, piece by piece, and the only person who could help hold him together is locked away in his own misery, self-medicating with Jack Daniels and late-night TV. And Sam has no way to reach him.

One night, the last fleabag motel on the outskirts of town has only one room left, with only one bed. They'll have to share.

It's late, they're both tired and gritty from thirty hours on the road, taking turns sleeping in the car while the other drives. The weather has made it impossible to push on, blowing sleet and black ice and their own exhaustion rendering the road unsafe. They get ready for bed silently and efficiently, a minimum of words exchanged. Sam gets in first while Dean's in the bathroom, turns out the light to make it easier. Dean slides in beside him, curls up on the very edge of the bed with his back to Sam. Sam can feel the tension radiating from him, every muscle taught with the effort to keep himself as far away from his brother as possible.

Sam can't take this anymore, he just can't.

He turns and reaches a hand out to Dean, pulling him towards himself. Dean resists for a moment, stiff and unresponsive; then gives in, rolling over until he fits up against Sam's side, resting his head on Sam's shoulder. Sam wraps his arms around Dean, enfolding him, and the tension gradually drains out of Dean's body. He moves in closer, his arms going around Sam in answer, until the two of them are holding each other in in the dark, clutching each other like they did when they were kids and the monsters under the bed were all too real.

They fall asleep that way, and Sam clings to Dean like a drowning man to a life-preserver.

When he wakes, they've shifted in the night so they're back to front, with Sam as the little spoon, Dean's arm around his waist and his face pressed against Sam's shoulder-blade. Sam grins to himself, and stretches a little, and Dean rolls onto his back, releasing his hold at last. Sam gets up to shower, tucking the blankets back around his sleeping brother.

Dean's gone when he gets out of the bathroom, and Sam has a moment of heart-stopping panic. But Dean comes through the door a moment later, bearing a Starbucks tray, surrounded by sunshine and the scent of coffee. "Your venti vanilla double-shot latte, just the way you like it, princess!" He's loose and warm and cheerful, in a way that Sam hasn't seen for years.

Sam knows they've still got a long way to go, and they'll never talk about last night, but that's OK. Some things can't be said in words.

  
\- additional note: this was partly inspired by a scene from the movie [Howl,](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1049402/) starring James Franco as Allan Ginsberg. He talks about being on a road trip with Neal Cassady, whom he's in love, but who keeps hooking up with random girls. The two of them have to share a bed for some reason, and Ginsberg is tensed up on the edge of the bed, until Cassady reaches out and embraces him. It's a lovely moment, and it seemed to fit so well with [](http://kaylennz.livejournal.com/profile)[**kaylennz**](http://kaylennz.livejournal.com/) ' prompt wanting a long, emotional hug.

*********************************************


End file.
